Chapter 15 #2
She waits as Theren limps through the cold water toward her, his arm pressed so hard to his side that he can’t feel his fingers anymore. The soldier’s—-Arias’s—-eyes burn into him for a moment, and then he turns and climbs back into the ship.
By the time Theren makes it up the hatch steps, a wall of sturdy plastic is extending from the ceiling of the ship to the floor.
A barrier to protect against the Fever. There are three soldiers on board: the pilot, Arias, and a third, a small, solid young woman with unnaturally red hair that matches her jacket.
All of them wear filtration masks, the emergency kind made of stretchy, sticky material that adheres to the skin—-like a gum bubble that burst over a child’s mouth.
The lights in the ship are so bright he has to squint.
He’s not used to bright lights anymore, after four years in Valla with only fire and moonlight to see by.
The chemical smell of the ship makes him feel woozy; the last time he smelled something like that, he was on his way to meet Ileth Vidar, and—-
He forces the memory out. The hatch door is closing, and the ship is already pulling away from the ground.
It gives a lurch, and he stumbles into the wall to brace himself.
Let pain be the whetstone that sharpens the blade of you, Satka says in his memory, but he’s run out of sharpness.
Instead, he lets himself go to his knees, bracing himself with one hand on the grate floor.
He hears something about a first aid kit. Everything sounds like it’s underwater. A hand touches his shoulder, and he jerks away from it before realizing it’s only Elegy’s; she’s the only one on this side of the barrier with him. He looks up at her, blinking slowly.
“Sorry.” She holds up a bottle of wound sealant. “This won’t do much for you, but it’ll be better than nothing.”
“You keep using the wrong ‘you,’ ” he says to her.
“I know exactly which ‘you’ I’m using. Lift up your shirt.”
If he bleeds much more, he’ll pass out, and he’ll be at everyone’s mercy. So he sits back on his heels and, with trembling fingers, lifts the hem of his shirt up over his hip, exposing the deep, wet gash in his side. He pins the fabric under his elbow to hold it away from the wound.
Beyond the plastic barrier, he hears Arias hiss at the sight, sympathetic.
“Who is he?” Arias asks Elegy.
“He’s Cedrae. Feel free to ask him yourself.”
He’s Cedrae, he repeats to himself, but he’s not, is he? The only thing guaranteeing his Cedrae citizenship was the Knight oath. And he broke that oath almost as soon as he swore it.
Elegy tears open a packet of gauze with her teeth. He recognized her right away in the interrogation room. No one looks quite like her—-that particular combination of heart--shaped face, wide--set eyes, and freckle--dusted skin.
She reaches for him like she’s reaching for a wild animal, afraid it will lash out.
He’s still as she presses the gauze to the wound with one hand and pops the cap off the wound sealant with the other.
She holds the gauze down for long enough to make him stifle a moan of pain, then takes it away and sprays the sealant over the split skin.
It won’t pull the edges together, but it creates a seal more effective than her balled--up sweater or his forearm.
The sealant stings, fierce, and he sways into the wall. Circulation is returning to his fingertips.
“You shouldn’t have come,” he says. It’s all he can think to say. She must not know, must not remember, that at the first opportunity he abandoned her.
Coward, Fenn says, in his memory.
“You’re welcome,” she replies, a little sour. She caps the wound sealant and drops it into the first aid kit, then moves away, sitting with her back against the same wall he’s leaning against, her boots propped up on the metal floor.
“I’ll alert Losan Stronghold’s hospital so they can prepare the tests,” Arias says. He clears his throat a little. “Should they send extra security?”
Elegy glances at Theren.
“No. Primary Arias, this is Theren Forint.” He feels a sharp pain, and he’s not sure if it’s his or hers. “He used to be my Knight.”
An hour later, they reach Losan.
He’s just clinging to consciousness, but the sight of the city brings him back to himself.
The sun is just cresting over the mountains behind them.
It glints on the glass buildings packed into the valley.
The sight makes his breath catch in his throat.
He didn’t grow up here, but for his entire life Losan was a symbol of Cedre, one of its jewels.
Unbidden, a line from a Volyn poem surfaces in his mind. I crave a place I’ve never tasted.
Elegy crawls to her feet as they approach Losan Stronghold, which is a cluster of concrete structures on the edge of the city.
She opens a compartment in the wall and takes out two filtration masks.
One, she attaches to her face, covering her downturned mouth with smoky iridescence.
The other, she offers to him. His fingers are trembling so badly it takes him a few tries to hook the mask over his left ear.
He chokes as the material adheres to his face.
He tastes plastic, and he strains for air, even though the material is permeable.
“What happens now?” he says to her, as the ship touches down on the roof of the Losan Stronghold hospital.
“They’ll fix you up,” she says. “They’ll have questions for you. As will I.”
His lips feel numb, like they do when he has too much to drink. “And what will they do to get the answers?”
He can’t read her anymore. He’s too depleted. But a crease appears between her eyebrows. “They won’t hurt you.”
He snorts.
“They won’t,” she repeats, more firmly this time.
“Don’t,” he says. “Don’t pretend that you’re not going to rip me open. It’s insulting to us both.”
The hatch door opens, and the stairs extend to the ground. Her eyes are still on his when the paramedics charge into the ship in their orange hazmat suits. One of them holds a thermometer up to Elegy’s forehead; another asks to prick her finger so they can test her blood for Fever.
At the sight of him, though, they hesitate. He’s glad that he can’t feel them. He already knows how he looks, drenched in blood, dressed as a Talusar.
They set a gurney down next to him, the black canvas stretched taut between two polished poles—-shiny, everything here is so shiny—-and he complies, tipping his body sideways so he can ease himself down onto it. They lift him, and the jolt makes blood gush around the edges of the wound sealant.
The sweet, fresh air of dawn turns into the chemical clean of the hospital. His nose burns. Everything is plastic, the walls and floor draped in it. Fever containment protocol, which is justified, in this case—-his blood can pass the Fever to anyone with an open wound.
The ceiling is all lights and white panels. No place in Valla was ever this stark. They transfer him to a metal table, sliding the canvas gurney out from under him in one practiced motion. A light above his head turns on, making him wince. It’s hot, and too bright—-
He feels the cold line of scissors against his stomach, against his arms and legs.
They peel the fabric away from his body, and he shudders at the cold, and he wishes he could cover up, or run, anything to feel less exposed—-beside him, he hears a frantic beeping that he distantly realizes is his heart, now hooked up to the monitor—-
“Gotta take him down to the basement,” someone says. “That’s where all the old surgical equipment is.”
“Knock him out first. It’ll be easier.”
The man leans over him, a hard plastic anesthetic mask in hand, and peels the filtration mask away from his face. When he gasps, the man covers his nose and mouth with the anesthetic mask, and then everything disappears.
An hour after his surgery, he wakes.
They fixed him. He may not have elixir in his blood to repair his body, but even the most rudimentary equipment the Cedrae have is better than Valla’s.
His wound is now sealed shut, a neat red line.
It’s smeared with some Cedrae healing potion that will speed his mending tenfold.
And the whole thing is protected by sealant, to keep it clean.
He’s fuzzy--headed and confused, but no longer in pain.
He’s in a bright room, in only shorts—-a new pair, the fabric synthetic and skintight. An Eye hovers over him.
“Your test results are not yet ready,” a level voice says through the Eye.
“Let me save you some time. I’m Fevered.”
“Until we receive them,” the Eye continues, as if he hadn’t spoken, “you are under strict quarantine. Per our guidelines for soldiers returning from captivity, we are required to document the scarring on your body. Please stand.”
“I’m not a soldier,” he says, and he feels foolish, talking to a floating eyeball.
“Nonetheless, the Sword of Cedre has ordered that we follow the same protocol,” the voice says. “We are authorized to use restraint if you do not comply, either physical or chemical. Do you have a preference?”
He puts one leg over the side of the bed, then the other, and stands, his head swimming so badly he has to brace himself against a nearby table.
The Eye buzzes over and hovers at chest height.
Its aperture expands and contracts as it documents the old scar on his chest. Then it shifts to one on his side. As it moves, the voice speaks.
“Please confirm your name for the official record.”
“Theren Forint,” he says, resisting the urge to swat the Eye away as it moves in too close to his rib cage.
“The length of your captivity?”
The Eye flies behind him to document the scars on his back. His shoulders tighten, and he brings a hand up to his head, which is still swimming.
“I don’t—-” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. Four years and change. Are you finished yet?”
The voice doesn’t answer. The Eye darts from scar to scar, making Theren twitch. Then it zips around his head and hovers at eye level.
“Thank you for your compliance,” the Eye says. “We have changed your status in the system from ‘deceased’ to ‘living.’ You will be escorted to the showers shortly.”
He sits on the edge of the bed, and takes slow breaths.
Primary Arias arrives a few minutes later to escort him to the showers. When Theren asks for something to wear on his way across the hospital, he receives an apologetic look.
“The more you wear, the more they have to incinerate later,” Arias says. “It’s a short walk, I promise.”
So he follows Arias down the hallway almost naked.
He tries not to stumble or weave, though he still feels muddled by anesthetic and painkillers.
The floor is freezing on his bare feet. Everyone they pass—-doctors, nurses, soldiers—-stares at him.
And no wonder. He’s so tall now, and the smears of dried blood and antiseptic stand out against his pale skin, made even paler by the bright, cold lights.
He tries to stand straight, to look right through them.
By the time he makes it to the showers, he’s shaking. He draws the curtain between him and Arias, strips off the shorts, and turns on the water. The spray drums against his chest. He braces himself against the wall and leans forward, so it hits the back of his neck.
The length of your captivity? he hears again.
And his reply: Four years and change.
He feels hysteria rising in his throat like vomit.
He stuffs a fist in his mouth. Ranos, and the tart, sharp feeling of him distinct even in memory, on the ground asking for mercy Theren couldn’t give him; Theren’s hand covering a guard’s mouth as he slit the man’s throat; Rava’s boots stuffed into a shoulder bag.
The knife, sticky with blood. Elegy Rosyk telling him she would chase him if he ran from her.
He chokes on a sob, and sags into the wall, face--first.
“You all right?” Arias asks him through the shower curtain.
He wants to disappear. More than that, he wants—-not to die, exactly, but to be unmade. To have never been.
He takes his fist out of his mouth, sucks in a breath, and says, “Yes.”